Sooz's line was so great I had to use it for this story. Sadly, it doesn't involve Cocoabats, which may be out in stores here, but I haven't been to the store, so I can't tell.
But I have been to this hospital. This morning. I thought I was going for an office visit, but when I went to pay my co pay, the secretary said "I have you down for a procedure today. Follow the nurse to the dressing room." I look at Bob, shrug, and do as I'm told.
I changed into a johnny and a bathrobe and those oddly unattractive socks with the grippy stuff on the bottom. I was not allowed to wear my Birkenstocks, for reasons not made known to me. The nurse ushered me into a full blown operating room, which concerned me. I asked what "procedure" was going on today. The nurse told me that it was the same as last time, this time with an X-ray to guide the needles (note plural here - it's important because these are very large bore needles. If you used them for blood donation, you could get the blood in ten seconds, assuming the donor never saw the nasty thing.)
Hop right up on this table, with your head and chest on two pillows and two more pillows under your hips. Uh-huh, right. Not only was this position darned near impossible, having the nurse "assist" me by pulling on my legs did NOT HELP! OWOWOWOWOW! Eventually, on my own, I got into this ridiculous position, which was accented by the subsequent removal of my bathrobe and underwear. As Amanda would say, "For the Love of God, cover that horrible thing! PLEEZE!"
I get the back washed with cold goo, and comment I had taken a shower not an hour before. Get useless lecture from the OR nurse about how a normal shower is not sufficient. Resident doctor comes in and introduces herself. What a sweetie - and a surprise. The doctor looks about nine years old - well under five feet and perhaps eighty lbs. And African-American. That makes me happy because last year at Boston City, all the docs were white, and all the patients, nurses and support staff were African American. Maybe we're moving away from the stereotype that doctors are all white men.
The resident oversaw the whole prep procedure, and started the X-ray of the appropriate area of my spine (and butt). Then _The Doctor_ arrived. (all genuflect and show appropriate respect. I couldn't genuflect, so I gave a butt-salute instead.) Turns out that he had spoken with my physiatrist and they decided to give me three of those nasty steroid epidurals, kind of - this time really low in the lumbar region and into the nerve roots that control the legs. The theory is that covering a much larger area would reduce the inflammation. Of course, neither doctor called before the appointment to let me know of this change.
The less said about this procedure the better - hurty, hurty times three. The doctor commented that I was holding unusually still, I snapped back, "If I didn't hold still, you would hurt me for a lot longer!"
After all the hurty stuff infused into my back through the three needles, The Doctor (you can genuflect again) took his leave. I asked about pain medicine, and he said that he would need to speak with my primary care guy to fight it out over who has to prescribe. (where have I heard this before?) Before I could protest, he pronounced the procedure a success and disappeared into thin air.
The resident and nurse helped me up and supported me on my way to the dressing room. They suggested that I take a nap in one of their bank of reclining chairs before heading home. Since Bob was not allowed to come in with me this time (real operating room), I wasn't going to leave him in the boring waiting room with the film loop of people in pain. Still, I was not in good shape. So, I went into the waiting room, Bob ran to fetch a wheelchair, and I got parked in the hall in my wheelchair so Bob could make an appointment for another procedure in a month.
He nearly didn't have to: workmen with ladders were coming down the hall, and they caught sight of a young woman with large kazongas and no bra, bouncing down the hall in a very sheer tee shirt. As soon as I realized I was about to be decapitated, I announced "Heads up!" and the guys guiltily leaped to attention, and I was able to avoid certain death. Bouncy girl continued down the hallway, totally aware of her effect on men.
The ride home was less than wonderful: it's the beginning of college move in time in Boston. The youths and their parents seem to think that Boston has no driving rules at all, so they stop their nasty little UHaul trucks in the middle of a busy street, turn on the "4 way park anywhere lights" and start moving boxes. Folks! We have rules, and some of us even follow them. Blocking three or four lanes of traffic is not a way to make a good impression on your neighbors. I have decided that we are packing nothing when Manda goes off to school. We'll take her there, make a list once we see the room, and buy everything locally. It sounds logical and perfect, so I'm sure it won't work in the least.
I'm home, the happy juice is wearing off, and I can now walk unassisted. I wouldn't want to make any life changing decisions today, though. The old motor skills thing is a little off - I tried to thread the wrong end of a needle. So for tonight, I'm going to take some pain meds so that the happy juice lasts a bit longer, eat take out with Bob and Manda, and have some very colorful, interesting dreams.
Kathy N-V